


ain't gonna change much

by youabird (nevulon)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019-2020 NHL Season, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Party Planning, Post-Trade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:45:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23474635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevulon/pseuds/youabird
Summary: "What are you cooking for Tyson?" EJ said, four nights later, when they were at some dive bar near the Pepsi Center, celebrating a win."Who says I'm cooking?" Nate said crabbily. Nate didn't cook for Tyson. When Nate wanted to make Tyson a home-cooked meal, he had his mom fly in and then he reheated whatever she made him. Tyson, who was a good boyfriend, pretended not to be aware of this arrangement, but he definitely was. Nate's mom always left him extra dessert.
Relationships: Tyson Barrie/Nathan MacKinnon
Comments: 16
Kudos: 148





	ain't gonna change much

**Author's Note:**

> we all deserve some gentle Avs camaraderie in these trying times. as always, Tyson is an Av in my heart forever, but also I had a dumb idea and ran with it. please enjoy. don't own, don't read if you're depicted herein, and don't repost/copy to another site.
> 
> title from Another Story by the Head and the Heart.

Nate was having trouble catching Gabe unawares. He'd spent the better part of the morning trying to figure out the perfect moment to accost him, but it was impossible. Gabe's lower leg was still entombed in a walking boot, so he wasn't skating, but he was around the rink. Nate didn't dare pull him aside after tape review broke up or before conditioning—too many witnesses. It wasn't team business, but it wasn't casual, either. He supposed he could have texted, but he wanted to handle this face-to-face. It was too important to leave to text.

An opportunity finally arrived after practice, as Nate was lugging his shit out to the parking lot. Gabe, on his cell, probably talking to his wife, was leaning up against the smooth plaster rock of the hallway. He waved at Nate, and then looked alarmed as Nate threw his bag on the floor. "Hey," he said, covering the speaker with his hand, "What's up?

"I need your help," Nate said bluntly.

"With what?" When Nate provided no response, he rolled his eyes. "Call you back," he said and hung up.

"It's nothing big."

"Okay, good," Gabe said. "Because I'm injured right now. And I have a new baby at home."

"No, not like that," Nate said, although if Gabe wanted to spend less time showing off pictures of his new baby to the trainers and medical staff, surely his rehab would go faster. But Nate was here for a favor, not to dispense advice, so he shifted his weight and tried to find the right words. "Tyson's coming to town."

Gabe frowned and fiddled with the hem of his jacket. "Yes."

The trade was still an open wound. For Nate most of all, but nobody had been happy about it.

"The day before your birthday," Nate continued, hoping Gabe would catch on.

Gabe didn't. "Yes?"

Nate scowled. "He's going to want to see you."

Gabe laughed a little and tapped his boot against the floor. Evidently, Nate's meaning wasn't wholly opaque. Gabe was starting to guess what he meant, but he wasn't going to go easily. Nate hated this. "What are you asking me, Nate?"

"You have to come to dinner."

Tyson hadn't said shit about dinner or even wanting to see Gabe, had only asked, repeatedly, what they might be doing, and every time Nate had said, _I guess we can do whatever_, Tyson had sighed and then changed the subject. Nate had no genius for communication, in a relationship or out, but he knew Tyson, bone-deep.

Tyson wanted fuss. Nate was going to make one.

Considering, Gabe tapped his chin. He was enjoying himself. "I have a two week old baby at home."

"I'll pay for a babysitter," Nate said instantly. He'd have said _bring the baby_, but he wanted some chance of having Tyson's attention. Tyson really liked babies, especially when he could hand them back off to their parents when they started to grizzle. "I'll pay for a babysitter for a _week_."

"Who else is coming?"

"Just a few people," Nate said. Keeping the invite list small was crucial. Tyson liked parties, liked being the center of attention and having thirty or forty people to flit back and forth from, but this wasn't only about what Tyson would want. He'd only be in town for thirty hours; Nate wanted to monopolize him as much as he was able.

Gabe snorted out a laugh and looked over Nate's shoulder, down the hallway. "Is EJ on the list?" he asked, loud enough there was no chance EJ wouldn't hear him.

EJ was carrying his gear bag and was clearly trying to get out and go home, but he must have sensed there was a chance to be an asshole, because he broke into a wide grin. "On the list for what?" he asked, slinging his bag onto the ground.

"Tyson's dinner party," Gabe said innocently.

"Tyson's making dinner? Sweet."

"You both have to come," Nate said. EJ had been next, and last, on his invite list. Tyson would want him there, and four people—that was respectable. An intimate dinner, just him, Tyson, and their two oldest friends from the team. A nice compromise between fuss and Nate being abandoned while Tyson caught up with all his dozens of other friends.

EJ made a considering sound. "Should we dress up? Wear ties?"

"Stop," Nate said, frowning at their twin smirks. "You're not taking it seriously."

"I mean, no, obviously. It's Tyson. Come on, Nate," EJ said, "You give him alcohol and _you_ and he's in heaven."

"No, c'mon Erik," Gabe said. His smile was as broad as ever. Nate glared at them. They were going to be fucking insufferable about this, and Tyson wouldn't even be in town for two weeks. "He's nervous. This is a test of their love."

"It's not a test! Just, you have to come."

"Fine. We're wearing ties," EJ said grandiosely.

Gabe tried to look apologetic. It didn't work. Nate hated him. "We're maybe wearing ties."

+++

"What are you cooking for Tyson?" EJ said, four nights later, when they were at some dive bar near the Pepsi Center, celebrating a win. Nate gave him murder eyes over the top of his light beer. It wasn't the kind of bar where the music was loud enough that you could have secret conversations in the back of the booth. EJ didn't even bother play-acting at remorse; he just waggled his eyebrows at him.

"Who says I'm cooking?" Nate said crabbily. Nate didn't cook for Tyson. When Nate wanted to make Tyson a home-cooked meal, he had his mom fly in and then he reheated whatever she made him. Tyson, who was a good boyfriend, pretended not to be aware of this arrangement, but he definitely was. Nate's mom always left him extra dessert.

"Nate can't cook," Mikko said from his right, making Nate almost jump out of his skin.

"Fuck you, man," Nate said, elbowing Mikko back, so he'd stop eavesdropping, "I can so cook."

EJ laughed. "Okay, so what are you cooking us?"

"Can I come?" Mikko asked brightly.

"No. Four people, max."

EJ rolled his eyes and then, in an elaborate stage whisper, said across the table, "It's for Tyson."

EJ was such a dickbag. Just because EJ had been a good friend, and had kept Nate from self-immolating during the 2017 season, and had loyally listened to Nate whine about Tyson being in Toronto many, many times—well, it didn't give him any _rights_. "Thanks for that, asshole," he snapped, and EJ, being EJ, just grinned and took an obnoxious slurp of his beer.

"I want to see Tyson," Mikko said. He sounded betrayed.

Nate was onto him, though. "You just want food."

"Careful, Mikko, we don't even know what he's cooking yet."

"Don't you know what Tyson's favorite food is?" Mikko asked, which was _rich_ coming from a man who couldn't tie a tie, let alone cook a meal.

"Hey," Willy said, from EJ's other side, leaning forward with his friendly smile, "Not to eavesdrop, but if you're talking about dinner for Tyson, you could get him that Italian place that he likes so much. The one by Union Station, with the veal pasta."

Nate looked at him in horror. Not because of the pasta suggestion—Willy was absolutely right, Tyson dragged him to that place to eat veal pasta twice a month—but because he'd somehow forgotten Willy.

"Willy," Nate said, a tinge desperately, "You have to come to dinner."

"Wait," Mikko said, "Then why can't I come?"

"Oh, Mikko can have my spot, I don't mind." Willy shook his head, clearly not wanting to impose. "Tyson and I can catch up another time."

That would be a nightmare. Either Tyson would be _sad_ because Nate had overlooked inviting his second best friend on the team—and Willy would also be hurt, but he'd pretend he wouldn't be, and he was already injured, so he'd make piteous faces up in the press box and deny that anything was wrong—or Tyson would just bitch at him the whole night.

No way. It had to be _perfect_. Willy had to be there, or it wouldn't be perfect.

"No, you have to come," Nate insisted. Willy said several very nice things, and Mikko whined that _he_ wanted to see Tyson too, and EJ wondered if it was fair of Nate to spend the whole night "hogging" Tyson. Nate, browbeaten and with a small headache forming over his left eyebrow, gave in. "Fine," he said angrily. "You can both come."

It would be an intimate dinner for six.

"Come where?" said Barbs, leaning forward in his seat.

Nate groaned.

+++

Things spiraled from there, like they always did.

He found Gabe and EJ in the lounge, eating their breakfasts and admiring—what else—photos of Gabe's kid. She was a cute kid, Nate loved her, but this was outrageous. Also, he had more pressing issues. Yanking the chair across from Gabe out, he dropped heavily into it, startling Gabe into looking up. "I have to make cuts."

"That seems uncalled for," EJ said. "Gabe, show Nate the one of her in a bear onesie."

"I have too many names on my list," Nate said shortly, to forestall being shown any more pictures. "I don't have enough chairs in my—oh, wow. That's pretty cute."

Gabe beamed at him and put his phone down. "Who's on the list?"

When he got to the tenth name on his list, Gabe concluded that they needed to solve the problem _visually_—he got up and hobbled from the room in his boot, returning with one of Coach's hand-held whiteboards and a stack of dry-erase markers, grinning from ear to ear.

It was possible that Gabe had been understimulated while out on IR. He was way too thrilled about this. "Party planning supplies," he said, showing off the goods.

"No way," Nate protested, but Gabe had already started writing names down.

There were fourteen guys who already knew about it, who theoretically belonged on the list, and Nate _got it_—everyone liked Tyson. Everyone wanted to come hang out with Tyson, the one night he'd be in town. Keeping a secret on the Avalanche was like trying to hold water in an open hand. Nate had known this the minute he and Tyson had first started dating—Max had caught them together and had immediately blabbed to the entire team, and Gabe had tried to have a serious _talk_ with Tyson about dating a younger teammate, and Factor, weirdly, was the only one who'd had given them good advice, that advice being _if it's good, don't waste it_—but he'd hoped that this might turn out differently. He'd hoped he could have one night with his boyfriend where he could pretend that Tyson didn't live three thousand miles away.

Tyson would still like it, if it was everybody instead of just the six of them. Tyson would probably be ecstatic to have the guys all over him, reminding him that no matter what TSN said, he was their friend, he was good at hockey, and he was beloved. Nate would do that for him—even if he would rather be selfish. Nate would do anything for him, but that didn't change the fact that he had eight dining chairs and nowhere to put any more.

"Hmm." EJ tapped one of the dry-erase markers onto the tabletop pensively. "Well, we can't cut the list down any further. Everyone's good here, except maybe this MacKinnon guy. He's dead weight."

Nate wished EJ would die. Gabe, meanwhile, looked speculative. "EJ, you have a big house."

"I'm not cooking," EJ said at once, looking offended. Meanwhile, Nate's temper kicked into higher gear.

"It's supposed to be an _intimate_—"

EJ smacked him in the shoulder. "Nobody needs to hear about your sex life, Dogg!"

They were still arguing when Tyson Jost walked in. Gabe immediately asked if he wanted to see his new baby pics, looking crushed when Josty reminded him he'd shown him some not half an hour ago. Nate ignored him; he had threatened to uninvite EJ entirely and EJ had responded by recapping every single time Nate had come over to get drunk and whine about Tyson being in Toronto, so Nate was busy trying to punch EJ in the throat.

"Wait a minute," Josty said, peering over Gabe's shoulder at the whitebaord. "This isn't right. You can't do this."

Finally some sense. "Thank you, Josty," Nate said nastily, releasing EJ from his headlock. At least _someone_ understood that fourteen people was a totally unrealistic number.

"What about Kerf?"

Rarely had Nate been so betrayed. "He can't come," he said hotly, like it should have been obvious. Kerf was great, Nate was excited to see him, but he _lived in Toronto_. He was the last person who deserved to come to this dinner.

"What, he's supposed to just sit in his hotel room alone while you throw a party for Tyson?" Josty demanded, hands on his hips.

When he said it like that, it sounded bad. Nate heard how it sounded.

"It's an _intimate dinner!_" he said, to no one in particular. It was futile; nobody seemed sympathetic to his plight.

Gabe picked up the dry-erase marker and added a fifteenth name to the guest list. "Okay, hear me out," he said brightly, "What if we rent some chairs."

Nate put his face down on the table.

+++

Nate was still neck-deep in party planning when Tyson called to let him know about the firing. Nate said, "Hey, what's up?" and Tyson said, "So, guess who got fired today?" And Nate, for one hot second, lost his mind with panic. "No, you idiot," Tyson said, "Babcock, not _me_."

Nate sank into a chair. His emotions were all over the place, and his heart was still pounding in his chest. Tyson sounded normal on the call, if a little unusual, like he was on the verge of laughing, even though Nate didn't say anything funny. Mostly Nate said, "Wow," and "Are you okay?"

Tyson promised he was fine. He said, "I love you," and then someone in the background of the call said something that did make him laugh. "I gotta go," Tyson said, "But I'll see you in a few days."

"Okay," Nate said. The tips of his fingers felt numb. "It's gonna be perfect. I'll see you then."

Nate had a guest list that still felt unbearably large and a plan that Gabe had cooked up that seemed desperately optimistic, but now he had another, even bigger issue. The issue was that Tyson's shitbag coach had gotten fired, and now Tyson would get to play his game again, and he might not hate Toronto. Nate didn't _want_ Tyson to hate Toronto, not as long as he had to live there, but he desperately didn't want Tyson to _like_ Toronto, either. And when Tyson showed up in two days, if things weren't definitely, unmistakably perfect, maybe Tyson would realize he wasn't even missing all that much.

Nate forced himself to breathe, then went to go find backup.

He needed Willy and he needed Gabe. They knew Tyson nearly as well as Nate did, and they had a smidgen more objectivity about him. Although they were both on IR, they tended to be around the rink nonetheless; Nate found them hanging out in the player's lounge. Willy was reading a thick book with a title that made no sense, and Gabe was staring, moony-eyed, down at his phone. Nate didn't know which one would be more helpful, but while he had them both here, he decided to hedge his bets. "Can you help me?"

Willy closed the book. Gabe, who was an asshole, merely flicked a glance at him and went back to his phone. "Uh, sure," Willy said. "What with?"

"Well," Nate said. There were any number of things left to do. The guest list was still way too big and EJ was being a dick about the chair rentals, but most pressingly, he hadn't ordered any food. "The Italian place—I don't know what kind of pasta is the one Tyson likes."

Nate _did_ know, but Tyson never looked at a menu, never considered the daily specials when they went, just said, "I'll have my usual, please," and the waitresses, all of whom knew him and adored him, would bring it over. Nate would pore over the menu, trying to balance carbs and protein and avoid anything with dairy, and then Tyson would slide him as many bites of pasta as he wanted. So he didn't know what it was called. He just knew it was Tyson's favorite.

"Oh." Willy's expression softened. "Let me pull up the menu, it's an Italian word."

Nate nodded. His stomach was cramping with nerves. Gabe, who was an asshole but also one of his best friends, locked his phone and put it away. "Does he know about this, by the way?" he said, waving a hand to encompass the intimate dinner, the fuss, all of it.

"You can't tell him," Nate said immediately.

He had definitely overplayed his hand there. Gabe, seeming thoughtful, tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Is this grand gesture for him or for you, Nate?"

"You think I'm having fun planning this dinner?"

Nate was having zero fun. He'd paid a small fortune to hire a shitload of chairs and was about to pay more to the Italian place. Gabe exchanged a look with Willy and then said, in a very gentle tone, "I don't think he ran off to Toronto and forgot about you. He texts you thirteen times a day."

Tyson texted him all the goddamn time, and called him, and sent him memes on every conceivable social media platform, too. It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly fucking enough. Nate looked at the floor. "Yeah, sure. But he's only here for one day, and I... it's got to be perfect."

"What if we settled for really, really good?" Gabe asked, patting Nate very nicely on the shoulder.

Nate scowled down at the scuffed linoleum. "No, I want it to be perfect."

"It'll be good," Willy insisted. "You'll see. He'll be happy either way, because you did all these nice things for him."

They didn't get it. Willy was self-actualized and Gabe was the self-professed romantic around here, whereas Nate was the idiot who'd once bought Tyson dish soap for Valentine's Day, and yet they didn't understand at all. "Okay," Nate said slowly, "But I want it to be perfect."

Instead of engaging with that, Willy smiled and sat up straight, reaching over to show Nate his phone. "Okay, here it is. His favorite pasta is this one. Maltagliati con L’aggrassatu."

He must not have said it right; Gabe rolled his eyes at his pronunciation. "Canadians."

Still buzzing with the joy of discovery, Willy looked up at him eagerly. "Do you want to know why it's called maltagliati con l'aggrassatu?"

Nate stared at him. "No."

_Honestly_.

+++

Tyson hadn't changed. He must have—it had been a few months, and Nate had only seen him on TV or through his phone, but he didn't look any different. He had kissed a dead fish, Nate remembered that, but that didn't stop Nate from dragging him into his car and kissing him in front of the visitors' hotel until his mouth was sore and Tyson's hair was even more of a mess than usual.

Thank God for tinted windows.

"Hi," Tyson said breathlessly, when they parted a few minutes later.

"Hey Tys," Nate said. "What the hell is this suit, by the way?"

Rolling his eyes, Tyson straightened his jacket and batted, uselessly, at his hair. "Nice to see you too, you dick."

It was incredible to see him. He was here, real, three-dimensional, wearing an ugly blue suit with grey check, bags under his eyes and his wide, beaming smile on his face. Nate felt a million feet tall, like the car and possibly the whole state of Colorado weren't big enough to contain his happiness. He'd been worried, especially since Tyson had scored in Arizona and the Leafs had looked so happy for him, but those fears had melted away. "I'm so fucking glad you're here," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I'm _so_ fucking glad, Tyson."

Tyson kissed him again, quick and bruising. God, Nate could get used to this. "Me too," Tyson said, settling in his own seat at last. "Now let's get out of here. I didn't come all the way from Canada to sit in your car and stare at a Hilton parking lot."

As they drove, Tyson took his free hand, laced their fingers together, and told him everything. Toronto, Naz's apartment, where he liked to take Ralph in the mornings and where they could go in the afternoons when they didn't have a game, where in the city it was quiet enough that Tyson could think. Nate had heard it all before—Tyson dominated most of their conversations—but it was like slipping straight into their old life: driving home from the airport, Tyson talking nonsense, everything back as it ought to be. Nate was drowning in good fortune, even if it was the fleeting kind.

Tyson didn't notice where they were going until the last few minutes of the drive. "Why," he said, interrupting his own story about getting lost on public transit, "Are we going to EJ's house?"

Nate didn't say anything, not at first. Instead, he squeezed Tyson's fingers. "Okay, listen, Tys. I love you."

"Okay, sure," Tyson said, sounding bemused. "I love you too."

"And I had this planned differently, but all that matters is that you like it."

"Shit," Tyson said, "Are you proposing?"

Nate took his eyes off the road to stare at him. "No. Do you want me to?"

"Well, yeah, but not right now."

Tyson was bright red. Nate was sure he was just as bad. "Well, when?" he demanded.

"Can we circle back to what's happening right now?"

Nate laughed, a nervous, half-desperate sound in his chest. Tyson laughed too. Out of long-standing habit, Nate raised Tyson's hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. "Sap," Tyson grumbled, secretly pleased.

Nate parked in EJ's driveway, tires crunching over the lightly packed snow. There were no other cars about—they must have hidden. Or taken a bunch of Ubers, stealthily concealing themselves from Tyson. Nate didn't know why. It wasn't a surprise kind of party. Tyson had never expressed an interest in surprise parties before; Nate had just wanted... something. Something more than having sex at his house before Tyson's curfew. They'd had a lot of sex, and they'd dodged a fair number of curfews. Nate wanted something different—something _real_.

Tyson was looking down at their conjoined hands. He met Nate's gaze and smiled, offhand and wry, because if Nate was bad at noticing his feelings, Tyson was bad at acknowledging he'd ever had any. But he had a lot of feelings, way more than anyone else Nate knew, and he wanted someone to make a fuss over him, even though he'd never say so. Nate was desperately in love with him and had been for years; no amount of distance could change that.

He was going to make a big-ass fuss.

"I did this for you," he said, "And hopefully you like it. Because you should get everything you want."

Tyson looked at him like he was crazy. "I have everything I want," he said.

It wasn't strictly true—Nate knew that. Tyson had to live in fucking _Toronto_, obviously it wasn't true. But Tyson wasn't lying, either. It was half-true, and Nate was learning to be a glass half-full kind of guy.

Nate kissed him, and Tyson laughed into the kiss. "Maybe," Nate said, "You should check it out before you say something like that."

Tyson laughed again. He let Nate open his car door for him and they walked up the snowy driveway together, Tyson shivering and complaining about the snow and the surprise. "Come on, Tys," Nate said, pulling Tyson's hand into his again, "You'll see. You'll like it."

Nate hadn't even managed to raise a hand to knock when the door burst open outwards, nearly giving Nate a black eye and causing Tyson to shriek and leap into the air.

"Surprise!" shouted dozens of people, all cramming through EJ's doorway at once to say hello to Tyson. Nate immediately lost hold of Tyson's hand as he was ferried in and Nate, scowling, had to stand there and hold the door.

"Oh my god. Oh my god," Tyson was saying. Nate stamped his feet clear of snow and tossed his coat on a hook. "Landy, you son of a bitch. Oh, wow, shit, the whole team's here, hey Willy, and you must be Andre. Hey Cale." When Nate finally joined the scrum in the front hall, Tyson stood there, wide-eyed, still in his coat and hat, turning in circles. There were guys halfway up the stairs, and balloons, and pink streamers tacked up badly over the doorway to the kitchen. Tyson, looking astonished and delighted, kept moving around uselessly, as if he didn't know what to do first. "Oh, wow, Jesus. Is anybody _not_ here?"

"Josty and Compher went to get Kerfy," EJ said helpfully. He had on a sparkly pink party hat, and a tie.

"I—" Tyson broke off. His eyes were wet. No one mentioned it, although they sure as hell would when the shock wore off. "This is really nice and really fucking unexpected, but you guys know I have a curfew, right?"

"Yeah, we planned for that," Gabe said officiously. He picked up a manila folder he'd set down on one of EJ's side tables and cracked it open. There were color-coded charts. Gabe, who apparently didn't sleep much because of the baby, had _way_ too much time on his hands. "We divided everybody into groups. Group A is here until 7:45. Group B can stay til eight-thirty. And then we will be having an intimate dinner for six."

Gabe shut the folder with a snap, beaming from ear to ear. Tyson stared at him. Then he turned to Nate. "What the hell was this like in your head?"

Nate shrugged. Tyson seemed thrilled, laughing and shaking his head in disbelief; that was all that mattered. "There were less balloons, for one," he said, as he gently ushered Tyson into the house.

+++

"So," Willy said, filling Tyson's wine glass a third of the way full. It was just the six of them now—Nate's cherished dream of an intimate dinner for six. The first part had been good, the second part had been better, but now it was just them, eating dinner. Also, Nate had had one hand on Tyson's thigh for the last half hour or so, which was as close to perfect as they could get in public. "When can we ask you to come back?"

"Aw, you guys," Tyson said. He knocked back his wine in one sip. He wasn't drunk—Nate wouldn't have let him, and Tyson wasn't a fucking idiot—but his face was flushed, his eyes bright, warm with affection for them all. "You know I'd come back if I could. But then where would Naz live?"

EJ snorted. His party-hat had come askew but he'd been stubbornly wearing it all night, long after everyone else had taken theirs off. "You have guest rooms, dude."

Tyson shrugged, still pink and happy, but there was nowhere good for this conversation to go. Nate was about to open his mouth, but Gabe beat him to the punch. "Plus, obviously Nate would let you move in with him in a heartbeat."

"No, I wouldn't," Nate said, "He snores."

"You love my snoring."

"No," Nate said. He didn't love Tyson's snoring. He and Tyson had effectively lived together for a large portion of the summer and were trying to figure out how to extend that to the whole summer this year, and Nate hadn't grown used to the snoring one bit. "You? Yes. Your snoring? No."

Fluttering his eyelashes at Nate, Tyson stole his wineglass. Nate let him. Across the table, Mikko shook his head. "You guys are gross."

"I think it's nice."

"Ah, Colin said something unnecessarily soft, drink," EJ said, clinking his glass against Gabe's.

"Wow, I've been gone like, two months and you already have in-jokes without me. It hurts to be abandoned."

"Tyson said something tragic," Gabe said, shaking his head, "Drink."

Nate shook his head and leaned in close to Tyson, close enough to smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his flushed cheek. "In my head, our friends suck less."

Tyson giggled. He covered Nate's hand with his own and didn't move an inch away.

+++

"Points out of ten," Nate said. He felt drunk, even though he'd had maybe one glass, plus the sip or two he'd managed before Tyson had stolen his wineglass entirely. Tyson, sliding in on the passenger side, snorted and looked at him to gauge how serious he was. Nate was _deadly_ serious.

"Nine."

Nate absorbed that with as much calm and dignity as he could muster. "What'd I lose for?"

"We wasted all this time hanging out with the guys, now I have to go back to my hotel and jerk off alone."

"Alright, stop," Gabe commanded, shutting the driver's side door with a sharp _snap_. Nate and Tyson both jumped, and Gabe frowned sternly at them in the rearview mirror. "No more of that. I am a father now."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"My daughter is not an _it_," Gabe said, turning on the engine. "And if you shut up and be good, I'll bring her to the game tomorrow."

Tyson's face went misty with love, which was impressive because he hadn't even met the kid yet. Nate, feeling equally tender, picked up Tyson's hand.

"Really, though."

"Really, points out of ten?" Tyson asked; Nate nodded. Sighing, Tyson pushed closer, despite their seatbelts in the way. "Ten. Thank you for doing that for me."

He moved closer still, his mouth open just enough that Nate could feel the soft drag of his lips against his jaw. That was dirty fucking pool, because Nate liked Tyson's mouth there, a lot. Against his better judgment, Nate turned his head and kissed him. It was tacky and juvenile to kiss in the back of the car, but Tyson kissed back insistently, and Nate's common sense abruptly evaporated.

They must have been quiet for too long; Gabe yelled at them from the front seat. "Do the words shut up and be good mean anything to you?"

Tyson dragged himself away from Nate's mouth; bright-eyed, flushed and lips swollen, he looked like Nate's favorite fucking thing in the world. "Well, when Nate says them, yeah, but that's like, a whole different context."

"Tyson!" Gabe and Nate yelled at the same time. Tyson laughed his loudest and brightest laugh, shaking his head.

"Come on, that was fucking funny."

Gabe put the radio on, still scowling at them in the backseat.

Nate didn't kiss him again, because Gabe was doing him a pretty big favor, driving them back to Tyson's hotel. This way, Nate didn't have to watch the road or the other cars; he could stare at the side of Tyson's face, lit in half-chunks by the streetlights. They held hands without the gear shift in the way, and Nate tried his best to savor each second as Gabe drove, artificially slow, down the Denver streets.

But Gabe could only drive so slowly, and soon they arrived. "We're here," Gabe announced pulling up to the curb and throwing the car into park.

Tyson looked up at the hotel, a grim expression on his face, and then unbuckled his seatbelt. "Gabe," he said, crawling across the backseat, "Look away."

"No way," Gabe said, but Tyson didn't care.

"Gabe, I am advising, not asking!"

"Here," Nate said, and he snatched up his coat where he'd shoved it in the footwell, pulling it up over both of their heads. It was the thinnest possible veil between them and Gabe, and Gabe loudly snorted to let them know.

Nate didn't care; he kissed Tyson deeply, fingers tangled in the short hair at the base of Tyson's neck, dragging him where he wanted him to go. Tyson fought him for every inch, smiling into his mouth, his cold fingers laced around Nate's neck. For a moment it was like any other night—any one of a million other evenings he'd dropped Tyson off at home, missing him as soon as Tyson went inside, already looking forward to the next time they'd see each other.

That part hadn't changed. Tyson pulled back, kissing Nate's chin and jaw, little rabbit kisses like he didn't want to break away; that part hadn't changed either. Nate would see him tomorrow, and then he'd get to see him again in Toronto. And then it would get fucking hard, for a long time.

But at least they'd had this.

He pulled his coat off right as it started to get hard to breathe. Gabe was glaring at them in the rearview mirror. "Gross," he sniffed.

"Love you, Gabe," Tyson said, leaning forward to place a smacking kiss on the side of Gabe's head. Gabe jerked his head away but he was smiling, too. "Happy birthday. Bring me that baby tomorrow."

Gabe shook his head, expression fond, as Tyson slid out of the car. Nate, grinning, followed him out into the cold.

"What if you just didn't show up tonight?" he asked as they dawdled their way to the lobby. They still had six minutes to curfew. Nate had been counting them all.

Tyson huffed out a laugh, without humor, and dragged one of his shoes through the snow. "I would probably get benched tomorrow."

"You'd better not do that then." Tyson had gotten his goal at last and he was finally getting the chance to play his game. Nate wanted Tyson to play his very best, _and_ he wanted to wipe the floor with the Leafs. He held both desires in his heart, each as dear as the other.

Even though there were precious few moments left before eleven, Tyson kept hesitating. He looked at the doors and then he looked at his watch and then he looked at Nate. Everything sucked, and yet Nate was really fucking happy. "I love that you did this for me," Tyson said, taking a single step closer to the doors. "I don't love that I'm going in to jerk off alone."

Nate laughed too, and stuck his hands in his pockets against the chill. It was cold, the wind biting, but Nate barely felt it. "Go to bed, Tys. I'll call you when you wake up."

"I'll see if I can sneak out for breakfast," Tyson said. And then he checked over both shoulders and, satisfied the coast was clear, mouthed, "And for sex."

Nate laughed despite himself. Tyson still hadn't gone inside. Nate wanted him to, didn't want him to. His chest ached. There were only four minutes left til curfew, and Tyson couldn't risk it, so inside he went at last. Nate stayed on the icy front walk, waiting, until the double-doors closed behind him.

That was fine, though; Nate didn't mind waiting. He was prepared to wait for Tyson for a long, long time.


End file.
